


Molly and Her Jumper: Short Stories

by fettuccine_alfreylo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Crack, Dick Pics, Dirty Talk, Dirty talk in another language, Dom!Molly, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fingering, Genderswap, Hand Jobs, Humor, Lingerie, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Secretly Married, Sexting, Undercover, Wall Sex, laboratory sex, molrenelock, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9362576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fettuccine_alfreylo/pseuds/fettuccine_alfreylo
Summary: A series of (mostly very dirty) short ficlets I've written over the years on my Tumblr. Will be updated as I slowly work my way through my archive.





	1. Bouncy Castle

“Ow.”

“Is that—?”

“Nope. Just – Sherlock! Get off.”

With a small grunt, Molly pushed Sherlock off of her. He bounced off the inflated ground upon impact and rolled away.

“This isn’t—” Molly hiccuped and Sherlock giggled from one of the four corners of the bouncy castle. “This isn’t working for me!”

More giggles from Sherlock’s end and also what sounded like a burp. Or possibly him passing gas. Molly couldn’t tell. She’d imbibed a bit too much alcohol and Sherlock wasn’t much better off.

“It was  _your_ idea,” he threw back. Though it was steadily approaching nightfall outside and the lights in John’s meticulously manicured garden were dimmed, Molly could still make out Sherlock’s form as he attempted to stand on wobbly legs only to lose his footing and fall back down on his rear.

“Y'know, it’d probably be easier to move about in here if you didn’t have your pants and trousers ‘round your ankles, silly,” Molly slurred, watching fondly as Sherlock pushed himself to standing again. At her words he glanced down, hummed thoughtfully as if he’d forgotten that he was still wearing anything and kicked his remaining clothing to the side, nearly tripping in the process.

Molly took a few seconds to appreciate his naked body before crooking her finger. “C’mere. We haven’t got all night.”

It took quite a bit of maneuvering for both of them to get back to where they’d left off but even then, it wasn’t as pleasurable or fun as Molly had imagined when she’d first suggested the idea (‘I fancy a shag in the bouncy castle. All the kids are knackered and ready for cake. You up for it?’). With the added momentum of the inflatable space around them, Sherlock kept knocking the breath out of her every time he thrust forward. He, too, seemed to be having a hard time getting comfortable; unable to plant his feet firmly on the ground, he kept propelling both of them backward until his legs finally gave out and Molly’s face was squished against one of the inflatable walls.

“What now?” he panted.

“Here, just…let me.” By some miracle Molly was able to use what little stamina she had left to roll over so that Sherlock was tucked underneath her instead. Then, breathing heavily like she’d just run a marathon, she reached down to position their bodies together.

As she slowly lowered herself onto his cock, Sherlock tipped his head back and closed his eyes, which gave Molly a lovely view of his jawline.

“This is…”

Molly nodded. “Yeah. Much better.” She bit her lip and swirled her hips experimentally. Sherlock rewarded her with a low whine of pleasure that sent sparks through her core.

“We should – ah! Probably think of an excuse to tell John and Mary for why we missed Lizzie’s cake and presents. John especially will be very cross if he finds out that—”

Bending forward, Molly silenced Sherlock with a kiss which he readily returned. There was a time and place for chit chat and right now was definitely out of the question. They hadn’t nicked a bottle of Mary’s good wine and snuck out of a five year old’s birthday party for a romp in a bouncy castle with nothing to show for it but static cling and lingering sexual frustration for the rest of the night, after all. 


	2. Baroque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A baroque/rococo AU, inspired by a rather naughty house party scene in Marie Antoinette.

Head spinning from the champagne and breathless with excitement, she tiptoes along the hall.  _Any moment now_ , she thinks. She can already hear those who have paired off with one another – the giggles, moans and the distant sounds of bodies thumping against walls. All of this is incredibly scandalous but she can’t say she’s surprised that the countess suggested they all end the rowdy evening with a naughty game of hide and seek. The woman more or less bought her place at court and her affairs with powerful people are legendary. Some have even suggested that the  _queen_ herself spent a night with Countess Adler. Molly is inclined to believe it; over a lavish dinner of caviar and oysters (how fitting, for an aphrodisiac to be served), the hostess had regarded her across the table with something akin to hunger.

Molly had blushed under the frank assessment and even now her heart quickens at the thought of what might happen if the countess pulls her inside one of these rooms instead of someone else. Someone male.

She never gets the chance to find out.

The door to her left flings open and a strong set of arms grab her around her waist to pull her inside. She does not put up a pretend fight or let out a shriek of surprise. How can she, when her only thought is that she’s about to the thoroughly ravished by one of the handsome male party guests?

The door clicks closed behind them and immediately a pair of lush, full lips press against hers. Molly wraps her arms around her partner’s neck and deepens the kiss, reveling in the way he takes her bottom lip between his teeth and tugs. His hands, already on her hips, pull her against him. Even through her voluminous skirts she can feel the evidence of his desire for her. Clearly, he’s been waiting and hoping that she would reach his room without being stolen away by someone else.

Molly breaks the kiss, her lips tingling and her heart pounding away in her chest. The man growls his dissatisfaction at her pulling away and proceeds to lavish her neck with the same sort of attention he paid to her mouth; small bites, lips dragging against skin and a devious tongue darting out to taste her.

“And who might you be?” she manages to ask. Her voice is low and husky with desire but she’s too distracted by his mouth to care all that much.

Teeth scrape along the pulse fluttering away in her neck and Molly tilts her head back, whimpering from the assault on her senses. Her soon-to-be lover hums knowingly and brushes aside a stray curl of her hair as his mouth travels south to her chest.

“You wound me, Molly,” he whispers, and her breath catches as she realizes who she is paired with for the night. There’s only one person whose voice has the capability to make her weak in the knees like this. He’s the younger brother of an illustrious earl and a favorite among women (and even a few men) at court. He never pays them any mind, not even the most beautiful or wealthy, so the knowledge that he has singled her out sends a pleasant thrill through her body.

She cannot begin to understand  _why_ he has chosen her, nor has she any idea of what he likes, but that is not enough to dissuade her taking part in this liaison. She is of age, after all, more than capable of making her own decisions, and she has already made the one decision that matters tonight: she’s going to make Sherlock Holmes her lover, and she is going to enjoy every second of it.

She can tell by the small noises of approval he makes as he runs his capable hands along the exposed skin of her bosom that he has made up his mind, as well.

“You have never done this before, have you?” he murmurs, pressing heated kisses along her collarbone.

Molly sucks in a breath and bites her lip. “No. I haven’t.”

“I thought as much.” She can feel him smile against her skin. It’s simply intoxicating, the way he’s treating her body as if every inch of her is a delicacy, made to be savored, and his reverence is everything she could have hoped for and more. She feels no shame, no worry for what she is about to do. There is only Sherlock, his hand slipping beneath her embroidered bodice, his mouth following behind, searching and teasing…

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes as his takes her nipple into his mouth and sucks. Her hands run through his hair (natural dark brown and no powder, as is his style) and come to rest at the back of his neck, her fingers toying with the curls she finds there. She pulls him tighter against her, urging him to take his fill of her. He does not disappoint; her body is positively aching with want by the time he has finished teasing both of her breasts.

“Shall we retire to the bed,  _Lord_ Holmes?” Molly purrs in what she hopes is an enticing manner.

He chuckles low in his throat. For a split second she feels unsure of herself, uncomfortable, but his tender kiss to her brow is enough to allay all of her rising self-consciousness.

He then leans close to whisper in her ear, his breath tickling her skin. “Leave the seduction to me. You are, after all, the sole reason I accepted the invitation to this ghastly house party.”

“I am?”

“Mmm,” he responds. He lowers himself to his knees and looks up at her, his dark eyes illuminated from the moonlight through the open window. “If there is one thing I can’t stand, it is sitting idle and allowing something that’s  _mine to_ be taken by someone else.”

“What do you mean, yours-?”

Her question is cut short as his head disappears beneath the many layers of her dress. When he finally resurfaces several minutes later, his chin slick from her arousal and his eyes shining with mischief, it is glaringly obvious that he has just  _shown_  rather than told her the answer. 


	3. The Wall Took A Pounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My response to Gatiss' infamous comment about Molly being wallpaper. This was originally published at the start of what is now known as "The Wallpaper Conspiracy". Prepare for crack!

Sherlock knows that he’s crossing a line. He’s well aware of the fact that few men of his age and reputation carve a hole in a wall, large enough to put their cocks through, and fuck it. 

But he can’t help himself. 

The walls of his flat, specifically the wallpaper, remind him of one person and one person alone: Molly Hooper. 

They’re strong, like she is. The wallpaper is just a bit gaudy but endearing nonetheless, as are Molly’s jumpers. And as John can attest, the walls can take a pounding…just like his pathologist does on a regular basis.

None of that probably makes the slightest bit of sense to anyone else but to Sherlock, the wallpaper is symbolic of Molly, and this is truly fortuitous seeing as she’s out of town at a medical conference and he is home alone, horny and in need of a slow fuck. 

“Molly,” Sherlock gasps, snapping his hips forward. His waist and upper thighs connect to the wall with a dull  _thwack._ He’s bound to have bruises in the morning but he doesn’t care. It’ll be worth it. Every sore spot, scrape and splinter will be worth it. It will all remind him of the night of passion with the wall and by extension, Molly herself. 

“Molly…” he intones again, slamming against the wall. He shudders with excitement when he imagines what Molly would say if she were to walk in on him like this. Completely naked save for his dressing gown, the entirety of his cock stuffed in the paper thin wall. 

He likes to think that she’d join him, coming up behind him to cup his balls, or at the very least find it an arousing sight and watch him from his armchair while stroking herself. 

The latter visual is too much for Sherlock to take. He pulls out and comes with a shout, allowing his ejaculate to spurt over the black and white design of the shabby wallpaper. 

When he finally catches his breath and wraps his dressing gown about himself once more, his entire body sensitive but especially his cock, Sherlock vows to give Mrs. Hudson a few extra hundred quid this month for rent. 

It’s the very least he can do to make up for the mess he’s just made. 


	4. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet inspired by [this](http://mollyandherjumper.tumblr.com/post/81142152602) gorgeous photo.

The room is positively ancient. The floorboards creak with each step and the walls are grimy and chipped of paint. God only knows the last time this place has been properly cleansed of dirt and dust. Years, definitely. Decades? Not out of the realm of possibility, but at least the bed linens appear to be recently laundered. 

Molly gingerly sits down on top of them to take off her heels. Out of her peripheral vision she sees Sherlock lean against the dilapidated fireplace. He’s been silent since their departure from the gambling club. Nothing went awry; far from it. From what little French she’d been able to understand, he’d gleaned some valuable information about Moriarty’s whereabouts whilst they’d played cards.

So why is he quiet? 

 _Only one way to find out_ , she reasons. 

“Are you okay?” She glances up and finds his eyes on her. His stare is disconcerting and makes her feel things that she made an effort to control in the past; the fluttering in her stomach, the color rushing to her cheeks, the pleasant ache in her chest. There’s no escaping those sensations now, though. Not with him so close, his hair slicked back and his shirt halfway unbuttoned with a glimpse of his broad, muscular chest underneath…

“I’m fine,” he assures, gracing her with a charming smile. She’d even go so far as to say it’s flirtatious. 

“You can drop the act now, you know.” She bites her lip to stifle a giggle as Sherlock saunters toward her, his eyes narrowed in a ridiculous approximation of a smolder. “We’re no longer Mr and Mrs Verner-" 

“ _Vernet_ ,” he corrects, his French accent impeccable. 

"Vernet, right.” Molly feels her breath catch as Sherlock comes to stand in front of her, his right hand held out for her to take. She peers up at him, unable to stop a grin from taking form. “What’s this?" 

Sherlock wiggles his hand, growing impatient. "This is me asking you to dance, Molly.”

Her smile fades faster than it appeared. “I’m a terrible dancer." 

"I’ve more than enough rhythm for the two of us." 

"I’ll trod on your toes." 

"You’re barefoot and I’m still wearing my shoes. There’s only so much damage you can do." 

Sensing a losing battle on her part, Molly crosses her arms and scowls. "Why are you doing this, anyway? If this is just you pulling my leg, wanting me to make a fool of myself, then - oof!" 

With a swiftness that she long ago learned to expect from him, Sherlock grabs hold of her arms and pulls her to her feet. He places his right hand at the small of her back and takes her right hand in his left, coaxing their bodies closer together. 

"I’m doing this, Molly,” he murmurs, leading her about the tiny room in time with a waltz, “Because we are one step closer to finding him after tonight. Thanks to you, I might add.”

“Thanks to me?" 

"Several of the gamblers were quite taken with you - Mrs Vernet, I should say. A pretty Englishwoman with a surprising flair for poker. They were more than willing to talk to me so long as you continued to play cards with the lot of them." 

Molly feels herself blush at his words. "My dad taught me. When I was little." 

"Obviously. Your level of skill takes years to achieve." 

He lets go of her long enough to jump up onto the bed. Molly willingly follows his lead this time, giggling as they both wobble and stumble around on the mattress. 

When they catch their breath, Sherlock takes her in his arms again, slowly swaying back and forth. 

"We’re also doing this,” he continues, leaning in to rub his cheek against hers, “Because this is as close to a first dance as we can get. Right now, at least. The ceremony was rushed, I’ll grant you that, but the minute we’re back in London…Molly, the minute this work is finished, I promise you-”

“Sherlock.” Molly stops him with a finger placed against his lips. “I don’t care about any of that. As long as you’re with me, I couldn't care less about a wedding reception or a honeymoon. Besides,” She reaches up and ruffles his hair until it regains some semblance of curl, “I’m probably one of the few brides out there who can brag about successfully infiltrating an illegal gambling ring with her new husband." 

"That is very true.” Sherlock smiles, and it’s enough to make her forget (if only for a little while) the escalated threat of danger that has followed them since they both said the words ‘I do’. 


	5. From Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...some of you may not know that I run a nsfw sideblog, [moaning-in-the-morgue](http://moaning-in-the-morgue.tumblr.com). I fill prompts on there from time to time and this is one of them: Sherlock coming into the lab, extremely horny, taking Molly from behind against a table.

“I told you I was working late. I sent you a text and everything,” Molly sighs, glancing up from her stack of paperwork. “I don’t have any body parts for you, either. I’m finished with cadavers for the day." 

"I’m not here for body parts,” Sherlock murmurs, coming up behind her. He snakes his hands around her front and pulls her close, paying no mind to her halfhearted attempt to brush him off. “I’m here for you.” 

"For me?”

“I thought that was rather obvious." 

"Well, yes. I suppose, but—” The real meaning of Sherlock’s words sink in as she feels the unmistakable sign of his arousal pressing against her back. “Oh.” 

"How good of you to catch up.” With a growl, he bends her over the lab desk and runs his hands over her trouser-clad arse. Molly doesn’t put up a fight because…well. Desperate, needy Sherlock does things to her. Really good things. 

“I’ve been thinking about you for the better part of the evening and it just won’t do, Molly. You’re very distracting,” Sherlock continues, his fingers kneading her behind. 

“Er…sorry?” She can’t think of much else to say, not with the way his hand is now cupping her through her clothing. 

“It’s not your fault, of course. It’s mine. Seemingly insignificant details about you get stuck in the forefront of my mind - the smell of your arousal, the timbre of your voice as you call out my name, the sight of you in lacy lingerie - and I can’t seem to shake these details from my thoughts. Hence my current…predicament." 

"Mhmm,” Molly acknowledges, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing because honestly, Sherlock walking into her work with a raging hard-on is equal amounts hilarious and hot. “What are you going to do about it, then?" 

"Well, that part is easy. If you’re amenable, and I think it’s evident that you are that given your elevated pulse and the rate at which your body is secreting natural lubrication for me, then I should like to—”

“Sherlock,” Molly sighs, grinding her rear against his front. Sherlock lets out a groan and grabs hold of her hips, keeping her flush against him. “If you’re about to say ‘engage in sexual intercourse’, you might as well throw a bucket of cold water on me.” 

“Why?" 

Molly lets out a small giggle and reaches under the desk to unzip and unfasten her trousers. Once that’s done, she makes quick work of pulling them down until she’s left in nothing but her pair of blue lacy panties. “It’s a figure of speech. I’m only teasing you.” 

"If you could…refrain from doing so in the future that would be…” Sherlock trails off, no doubt distracted by her choice of knickers. 

Molly smiles knowingly. “I’ll see what I can do. But in the meantime, fuck me. Hard. I’ve had a long day and would love nothing more than to come with your cock inside me.” 

Molly supposes she should laugh this time, what with Sherlock pulling down his pants and trousers in a matter of seconds, but her brain quickly short circuits, rendering her incapable of doing anything else but moan as he fills her up with every inch of himself.


	6. Lingerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt from the sideblog: Sherlock normally hated being dragged to the shops with Molly. But when Molly stops off at the lingerie store, Sherlock suddenly becomes an avid shopper.

“What do you think of this one?” 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The pink chemise that Molly wore expertly flirted the line between sweetly innocent and depraved. The hemline skimmed the top of her thighs and the sheer fabric left little to the imagination. In short, it was just the sort of thing that he’d love to tear to shreds before having his way with her. And yet, he needed to see more. So much more, all for his own selfish purposes. 

"The color doesn’t suit you,” he said. 

Molly frowned and turned back to the mirror, giving Sherlock a tantalizing view of the matching thong underneath the chemise. Christ. 

“You’re right,” she nodded, moving her hips from side to side, the delicate fabric swishing with each motion. “Too much pink." 

She retreated behind the curtain with a shy smile thrown over her shoulder, leaving Sherlock to cool down. He managed to regain some semblance of control after a minute or so.

With the introduction of the second ensemble, he had to force himself to think of that one time he’d barged in on Mycroft and George (or was it Gavin? Gareth?) in flagrante before he could respond. 

"Too much white,” he managed to say as he folded his arms, all too grateful for his voluminous overcoat in disguising his erection. 

Molly mimicked his movement, crossing her arms so that her cleavage all but spilled out of the white lace brassiere. Sherlock met her glare head on if only to escape the view of her perfect, pert breasts for a few moments. 

“Care to elaborate?” she urged. 

“You’re too fair. The white washes out your complexion.” It was partially true, though he wouldn’t care one wit about that if she were to crawl across his bed wearing only this naughty number and a pair of white stockings to match. 

Molly pursed her lips at his assessment, obviously unsatisfied, but nevertheless turned on her heel and went behind the curtain to change once more. 

The third (and final) set, which consisted of a see through corset and matching lace panties, was enough to make Sherlock sit up straight. This time, he couldn’t control his look of pure lust because Molly, despite her expression remaining demure and innocent, was every inch the ravishing vixen, ready to sit astride him at any moment and tease his cock until his eyes rolled back and he begged for mercy. 

“Well? What do you think?” Molly asked, giving him a twirl. 

“Yes." 

Her smile faltered. “Just ‘yes’?” 

"You misunderstand me,” Sherlock said, rising from his seat. He slowly made his way toward her but Molly held her ground, tipping her head back as he towered over her. “When I say yes, I mean yes, I am more than willing to spend four hundred quid on this if it means you’ll wear it tonight and every night for the foreseeable future. Yes, if it will make you happy. Yes, if you’ll let me unlace the back before I take you from behind, your curves spilling out as the fabric loses its shape—” 

“Sherlock,” Molly chastised, glancing sheepishly around the boutique. Thankfully, it was all but deserted save for the two shopkeepers who knew better than to pass judgement. “We’re in public.” 

Sherlock wrapped his arm around her waist, his fingers toying with dainty fabric of her panties, and then leaned in close to whisper three words that would hopefully expedite the process of purchasing the lingerie. 

"Not for long." 


	7. Dirty Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self explanatory prompt fill ;)

Sherlock is many things, but a dirty talker is not one of them. 

Molly Hooper, on the other hand, most definitely is. 

He learned of this particular quirk of hers the very same day he returned from his ‘exile’. Left with nowhere else to go, he’d found himself at Molly’s flat. She welcomed him in with open arms, of course, and after a teary reconciliation on her part, they spent the evening talking and imbibing in perhaps one too many glasses of wine. 

One thing led to another and close to midnight, Sherlock did something both incredibly stupid and brave; he kissed Molly for the very first time. Far from her rejecting his advances, she climbed into his lap and kissed him back until his lips felt bruised and his mind cleared of all thoughts except those to do with her. 

Yet it wasn’t until she wiggled out of his lap and onto the floor in front of him that he realized Molly wanted more than just kisses. She wanted all of him, starting with one particular part of him that pulsed at the sight of her on her knees, mouth glistening and long hair disheveled from the thorough snogging. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long. You have no idea,” she confessed. Sherlock could only stare as she unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. Next she motioned for him to lift his hips. He wordlessly obeyed, allowing her to pull both his pants and trousers down to his knees. His erection sprang free and slapped against his belly, which evidently Molly found very amusing. 

“God, you’re so big. Such a big, fat cock,” she guffawed, reaching out to gently squeeze him at the base. Sherlock jumped, mostly from the contact but also her lewd words. Molly paid him no mind and worked up a steady rhythm. One tortuously slow pull upwards, a flick of the wrist at the head and then back down again, just as slowly. 

Sherlock had no idea how long this went on, but there came a point where he could taste blood on his tongue from biting his lip too hard. He’d trapped one indecent word in his mouth after another while Molly had done the opposite, describing in exact detail what she was going to do to him. 

As perceptive as ever, Molly had noticed his silence right away but she didn’t seem disappointed by it; merely pleased with herself. 

“You can talk, Sherlock. It’s not against the rules or anything,” she teased, letting go of his cock altogether. 

He groaned at the loss and his hips bucked up on their own accord, seeking further contact. “But you’re doing…a fine enough job of it for the two—” Without any warning Molly’s mouth replaced her hand. Sherlock tipped his head back and closed his eyes, thoroughly convinced that if he glanced down he would surely expire on the spot. He was close to treading that line already with the way Molly was swirling her tongue over the glans. 

Letting go with an obscene pop, she spent a few moments mouthing and licking the length of him, stopping every so often to offer a filthy comment.

“I love this part of the head, right here.” She traced the ridge with her finger and then flicked her tongue over the same place. “God, I’m aching right now just thinking about how it will feel when you’re inside of me. Filling me up. Stretching me open with that thick cock. I’m so wet already but you’ll have to go slow, understand?" 

"Yes,” Sherlock rasped. 

He felt Molly smile against his skin. “Unless, of course, you’d rather finish now?” 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sherlock stopped to think. Did he really want this be over? Not just the incredible things that Molly was doing with her mouth, but the entire night? If he said yes, he would likely return the favor to Molly in some capacity and then they would both fall asleep. But what of the morning? Would they wake up and continue where they’d left off or would things regress to a point where neither of them spoke a word of this? 

Sherlock didn’t want to know. God, no. All he knew was that he was in Molly’s sitting room, at the receiving end of her clever, filthy mouth and he would rather be sent off to exile for a second time than see the night end without losing himself in her.


	8. Rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: Sherlock watching Molly as she masturbates, then they fuck rough.

Her hands slide languorously over her body, reacquainting themselves with it. It’s been awhile since she’s done this by herself. In fact, he’s seen to it that she doesn’t have to pleasure herself when he’s around. Coming undone at the hands of someone else is more satisfying in his opinion.

Yet with the case taking him away from London for the weekend and her sexual appetite heightened by the pregnancy hormones, it’s only natural that she would want to see to her needs while he’s away.

But he’s back now (case solved in record time, much to the amazement of John and Lestrade) and he wants nothing more than to make love to his wife…though there is something terribly exciting about watching her masturbate, completely oblivious to his presence in her open doorway. 

“Sherlock,” she moans, and for a split second he thinks she’s addressing him directly but no; her eyes are closed and her hand is in between her parted legs, touching the wetness that he swears he can smell over this distance. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she says again, her toes digging into the bed sheets. Sherlock feels lightheaded as blood pumps through his veins, filling his cock and God, it is so tempting to bridge the space between them and touch her himself. 

But no. It is better this way, if only for a little while. 

She begins to work her body in earnest. One hand clutching her breast, the other moving rhythmically over the area that is obscured by her quivering thighs. The sight of her like this, so desperate, so needy, sends a strong surge of possessiveness through his system. Not just the need to possess her physically, but to show her that she is his in every way; his in name, his to care for, to protect. To love. 

Yes, he loves her. How can he not, when the mere sight of her like this, her head thrown back in ecstasy, color blooming over the surface of her skin and her belly slightly rounded with his child, is enough to make him weak in the knees? 

“Sherlock.” She says his name again, like a mantra, and this time he knows she is calling for him. They lock eyes for the first time in days and she smiles as if she knows he’s been watching the entire time. Perhaps she does. 

“Come here,” she murmurs, reaching out for him. “Come to me." 

He’s never felt more happy to obey. 

Molly makes quick work of his clothes, not that he wore much to begin with. The October heat, while a welcome reprieve from the usual autumn chill, forces him to dress lightly. Anything more than a vest and a pair of lightweight trousers and he’s sweating bullets. He’s sweating bullets now, of course, but that is everything to do with Molly and they way she’s practically ripping his clothes off rather than the freakishly warm weather. 

"I missed you,” she says as she coaxes him to lie down on the cool, crisp bed sheets. He opens his mouth to tell her that he’s missed her too (more than should be allowed, seeing as he’s only been away for the weekend) but the words die on his lips as she sits astride him, pressing her exquisite heat against his. 

She’s so ready for him. Ready and deliciously wet. She forcefully grinds herself against his cock, slicking it with her arousal. Sherlock reaches for her, wanting to pull her mouth down to his, to feel the weight of her breasts pressed against his chest, but Molly bats his hands away. With a resigned sigh and a smirk, Sherlock folds them behind his head. A bit different than the scene he’d envisioned while watching her pleasure herself but no matter. She’s in charge today. With every rough slide of her skin against his, she makes that very clear. She owns him. 

Several years ago, he would have been horrified by the notion of anyone claiming ownership of him. But as Molly takes him in hand, pressing the tip of him inside her and slamming her hips down, instantly engulfing him in her tight heat with a lurid moan, he can say with absolute certainty that he has no problem with it now. She is his and he is hers. So long as she loves him, so long as she touches him, kisses him and fucks him into the mattress, the difference between the two does not exist. 


	9. Je Ne Sais Quoi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: Molly loves when Sherlock speaks French during sex. 
> 
> *Please note my french is rusty at best, so apologies if it's butchered here

Molly doesn’t know what Sherlock is saying but she’s certain of one thing: it’s incredibly filthy. How can it not be, when he’s practically purring against her inner thigh as he teases her with one finger pressing inside, his thumb on the opposite hand rubbing her clit with just the slightest amount of pressure? 

“Je veux te goûter. Je sais que tu goûtes si bonne, chère. Si bonne,” he says, slipping another finger inside to join the other. 

“Yes,” she whispers, at a loss for what else to say. She took one introductory French class at uni years ago so she’s only understood a handful of words so far; ‘dear’, ‘good’ and ‘perfect’ as well as the obvious ‘yes’. But as the two fingers begin to move inside of her, stretching her open and filling her up, she reasons that although she could ask Sherlock to translate, the request would definitely put a damper on the mood that’s been set. 

That mood is decidedly romantic, so needless to say it would be a shame to spoil it. From the minute she walked in the door after a long day at work, she knew that Sherlock had spent a considerable amount of time thinking it all through. Candles, soft music, champagne. She was surprised, to say the least, but then again Sherlock is unpredictable in his habits. One day he wants to do nothing but cuddle and the next he’s seducing her with French. His ability to leave her guessing is just one of the many things she loves about him…that, and the way he can make her thighs shake and eyes roll back using only his fingers, just as he’s doing now. 

“Devrais-je te lécher? Tu aimes ma langue, n’est-ce pas?” Sherlock murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to her thigh. Molly bites her lip and closes her eyes, wanting nothing more than for him to use that clever mouth of his to its full advantage. He could lick her, suck on her clit, fuck her with his tongue…at this point, she doesn’t care what he does. She just wants him to taste her. 

Hoping he’ll take the hint and do exactly that, Molly tangles her fingers in his curls and pulls his head down. Sherlock lets out a small chuckle and obliges, wetting her slit with one quick, tantalizing lick. 

It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Molly grits her teeth. “God, Sherlock…” 

He looks up at her at that. His eyes are dark, glinting in the candlelight, and Molly swears they burn even darker as he crooks the two fingers inside of her, causing her to cry out. 

“Shall I switch to English now?” he asks, still intensely focused on her face. He ceases all movement as he waits for her to answer. It takes a concerted amount of effort on Molly’s part to not lose her temper. Leave it to Sherlock to work her up until she’s taut as a bowstring only to keep her hanging!

“Sherlock…you could switch to any language for all I care,” Molly manages to gasp. Looking down, she catches a glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. The bastard! “Just…fuck! Stop teasing me!" 

Not bothering to hide his smug grin any longer, Sherlock picks up where he left off. He stops only once more in his ministrations to mutter something that sounds suspiciously like Pig Latin. Molly is too focused on her pleasure to ask.

Besides…she did say any language, after all. 


	10. Congratulations On Your Menses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: To celebrate getting off her period every month, Molly has marathon sex with Sherlock.

I. 

The first time is up against a wall. It’s quick, messy and over in a matter of minutes, leaving them both gasping for air.

Sherlock stills against her, his trousers around his ankles, as he hears what can only be Mrs. Hudson shuffling down the hall. 

“Sherlock!” she calls, and Sherlock presses a finger against Molly’s mouth to stop her from making any noise. “Everything all right, dear? I heard this horrible thumping." 

Molly laughs anyway. The more Sherlock gets to know her, the more he finds that she’s an incredibly silly woman when she wants to be. Giggling when there’s a high chance that the landlady could catch them going at it like horny teenagers? Ridiculous. Careless, even. But God help him, he adores her in spite of it. 

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson! Go and take your evening soother,” he snaps, distracted, since Molly has seen fit to wrap her hand around his still sensitive flesh, giving a slight tug. His eyes water and sparks shoot through his system but Molly just smiles that knowing smile of hers and thumbs over the head. 

“Round two?” she whispers. 

“Give me a moment,” he croaks. 

II. 

Sherlock thinks Molly’s suggestion of a cold shower sounds like a brilliant plan, since his nerves still feel a bit frayed, but that plan soon backfires as she lowers herself to her knees in front of him, eyes alight with mischief and her hair pooling down her back, the strands clinging to her wet, soapy skin. 

“Round two,” he groans. 

Molly snorts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

“I…don’t…” He trails off as she takes him into her mouth, her tongue lapping the underside of his cock in the way that he loves. 

He grabs the back of her head, forcing her to take more of him. Maybe gagging on his cock will teach her a lesson. He’s thirty-seven, far from ancient, but she ought to know that his refractory period is not to be tested. He’s no longer twenty, after all, and though he’s charmed that she’s comfortable enough in their relationship to celebrate the end of her menses in such a way, he…

“Oh,” he says faintly, feeling himself slide halfway down her throat. Molly lets out a moan, her tongue pressing against his balls. The vibrations make his cock swell and his eyes roll back. 

All thoughts of getting even are forgotten as she swallows his length, coating him with her slick mouth, and it isn’t until he climaxes for the second time that he remembers there’s bound to be a third go round. And a fourth. Most likely a fifth. 

It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t pass out somewhere along the way. 

III. 

“Fuck me,” Molly purrs, scooting to the edge of the bed. She spreads her legs and bends her knees, giving him a full view of her pussy, pink and still glistening. Whether the wetness is left over from the shower or their first coupling he can’t say for certain. Possibly both? 

“I’m still wet. Can you see?” She parts her folds and dips a finger inside. Stunned by her brazenness, Sherlock can only watch as she lifts the wet finger to her lips and pops it into her mouth, giving a satisfied hum. 

“Molly,” he warns.

“You agreed to watch, remember?” she teases, her hand trailing down her body again. Her nipples harden and Sherlock closes his eyes to steel himself. “Hm?”

“Yes,” he bites out. 

Dissatisfied by his inability to keep things going right after the shower, Molly had pulled him into the bedroom and commanded he sit in an armchair and watch as she slowly dried herself. That idea hadn’t yielded results in a timely fashion so she switched tactics by clambering onto the bed, making a point to showcase her legs, arse and breasts to their best advantage. 

Sherlock must (grudgingly) admit that this second, straightforward approach is working now. Seeing her sprawled across the sheets in nothing but his red dressing gown, the fabric doing little to cover her as she touches herself, he can feel himself stir for the third time. 

“You could fuck me right this second,” Molly continues. She begins to stroke her clit in small circles. Sherlock is tempted to touch himself, too, but he refrains from doing so to deny her the satisfaction (if only for a little while). 

“I could,” he says instead, giving her a tight smile. “But I won’t." 

"No?" She sits up slightly, her bent elbows supporting her weight, and smiles back at him. It’s one of those knowing smiles again. If Sherlock knew what was good for him, he’d leave the room. But no. She’s rendered him an idiot and he can’t leave. He’s rooted to the spot until she tells him otherwise, his mind and body hers to do with as she pleases.

God help him. 

As if she can read his thoughts, Molly crooks her finger, and what little resolve Sherlock had when he first sat down in the chair vanishes completely.

IV. 

Molly (finally) loses steam after the fourth time. She falls back onto the covers, her skin slick with sweat, and huffs out a breath. “God. I’m knackered.” 

Sherlock is mentally and physically overtaxed, as well, but thanks to his reciprocating oral sex for her with minimal touching of himself involved, he’s starting to feel a second (or it is technically a third? a fourth?) wind. 

"It’s not even midnight,” he tells her, resurfacing from under the covers. He licks his lips, still tasting her there. 

“Mhmm,” Molly sighs. 

“And you did stipulate that you wanted to, and I quote, ‘shag until you can’t think straight’,” he murmurs, crawling up her body until he looms over her. 

"I couldn’t possibly,” she groans. 

“Molly,” Sherlock chastises, bending his head to nip at her neck, “If there’s one thing that I’ve learned from this, it’s that you are insatiable around this time of the month.” He licks at her skin and like clockwork, Molly’s legs part underneath the covers to make room for him. “Besides,” he continues, trailing kisses down her chest, “It’s hardly fair for you to coax me again and again until you’ve had your fill only to stop before I can do the same." 

"We’re never going to get any sleep at this point,” she grumbles, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“Ah. But that is rather the point of marathon sex, is it not?”

Molly mutters something under her breath that sounds like ‘cheeky bastard’. Sherlock is inclined to agree with her on that assessment as he takes himself in hand and works up a friction between them, eliciting a high pitched moan from Molly. He stifles all other noises with his mouth, kissing her soundly until the room starts to spin from lack of proper oxygen. It’s hardly civilized; this sweaty tangling of limbs and shortness of breath, but it’s what he’s decided he wants in life. He wants her. Molly. Again and again, though preferably with some sort of break in between.

Sleep, breathing and civility be damned.


	11. Alpha and Omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: girl!Sherlock is an omega but she goes against the status quo, being aggressive and dominant, while boy!Molly is an alpha that has always been very mellow. She goes into heat and he’s there. Roles suddenly change and all Sherlock wants is to be knotted by the alpha, to feel that long, thick cock stretching her and his powerful hands tugging at her hair while he fucks her from behind. He wants to bite her and taste her blood.

Mark Hooper has always operated under the assumption that if Sherlock is in heat, she wants rather than needs him there. Independent and very aggressive for an omega, Sherlock’s made it no secret that she finds the needy, submissive behavior that most omegas go through beneath her. Given this controlling nature of hers, every heat since they first bonded has gone the same way. Sherlock texts Mark to come home, he (gladly) does as told and she ambushes him the second he walks through the doorway, pressing him up against the wall and commanding that he strip while whispering in explicit detail how she’ll tear him apart as she rides him, milking him for his seed.

She never disappoints in this regard so Mark has never questioned her proclivity to take the dominant role in the relationship. He just goes with it. What’s more, he welcomes it…that is, until the day he receives the most desperate, needy text from her that leaves him breathless with the innate, alpha urge to possess his mate: 

Come home now. Please. I’m dripping everywhere and I can’t stand it. I’ve tried to do it myself but I can’t. Please. 

Mark stands there for a moment, breathing in the chemicals of the lab in an effort to compose himself. It doesn’t work. Rather, the faint smell of blood acts as a catalyst, leaving him with no choice but to wash up, send a quick text to Stamford explaining the situation and then hurry home to Baker Street. 

***

“God, what took you so long?” Sherlock cries. 

Mark opens his mouth to answer but can’t seem to get any words out as he takes in the sight before him: Sherlock completely naked on the bed, her head thrown back and her legs spread wide as she fucks herself with three fingers. 

The wet sound of her pleasuring herself is the only thing he can hear; that, and his labored breathing as he strips himself, stumbling in his haste to remove all clothing from his hypersensitive body. And God, the smell in the air…he swears he can taste it on his tongue. A heady mixture of sweat, slick omega arousal and the slightest hint of vanilla. Her scent. Simply mouthwatering, unique and undeniably Sherlock. 

Clothing gone, he all but throws himself on the bed. Sherlock pulls him close, her lips seeking his. The kiss is ferocious, painful even; far from what Mark is used to but he can’t help himself. The once dormant alpha inside of him demands that he bite her, taste her blood. Claim her. 

“What do you need, Sherlock?” he growls. He flips her over, pressing his hard, leaking cock between the globes of her arse. He already knows the answer to that question he wants to hear it. No, he needs to hear it. He needs to hear every moan and every whimper on her lips as he takes what’s his, fucking her into the mattress, her legs sticky from her arousal and his cock fully seated inside of her hot cunt. 

“Mark…” Sherlock whispers, writhing against the bedsheets which are already soaked from her perspiration and desire. “Please. I can’t take it. I need it." 

That answer won’t do. With a muttered curse, Mark reaches for her hair, tangles his fingers in her long, dark curls and pulls. The effect is instantaneous. Sherlock arches up, presses her sex against his pulsing cock but most importantly, she bares her neck. It’s the ultimate sign of an omega’s submission to her alpha and all he needs to continue…save but one word past her lips. 

"I’ll ask one more time, Sherlock. Answer me,” he murmurs. He grabs hold of his length with his other hand and runs the tip against her dripping slit. Sherlock’s legs quiver but he keeps her steady with his fist balled in her hair. “What. Do. You. Need?" 

"You. All of you.” Her voice sounds strained and the answer is nearly incoherent with lust but Mark hears it. She needs all of him. His cock, his knot and his seed. Because deep down, beneath all that pride and stubborn independence, she’s an omega through and through - an omega who craves her alpha in the same way that everyone requires air to survive.

As Mark finally sinks into her welcoming body, swallowing Sherlock’s cries with yet another kiss, he vows never to let her forget that; she doesn’t just want him, no. She needs him. 


	12. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: Intense honeymoon bondage sex

“Test the bonds for me, pet." 

Sherlock did as he was told, finding the ropes snug and secure. She’d done an admirable job for someone relatively new to the art of bondage but then he was hardly surprised. She was a fast learner. He suspected her willingness was in part due to the need to prove that her skill now rivaled the Dommes of his past. Not that he would call her behavior jealous by any means. Competitive, surely, but she’d never given any indication that she was envious of his previous partners. He greatly admired her for that. Molly Holmes née Hooper had certainly changed and for the better; as she stood before him now, clad in nothing but a set of daring black lace lingerie, he hardly recognized the shy and insecure pathologist that she used to be.

"They’re sufficiently tight…mistress.” The word still sounded strange when spoken aloud, foreign, but it felt right; as the saying went, Molly was the one who called the shots - both in and outside the bedroom. For that reason the address seemed to fit perfectly. She was small but headstrong, able to wrap him around her finger with a few soft-spoken words, just as she had done when they’d retired to the bedroom for the evening. She had made quick work of his clothing, coaxing him to lie back on the bed while she tied him up. ‘Like a present’, she had said. 

As Sherlock watched her climb up onto the bed and loom over him, her wavy hair tickling his skin and her eyes gleaming as she surveyed her handiwork, he had to applaud her choice of words. He did feel like a present; wrapped up, on display and incapable of doing anything but wait for her to start. 

She began with his thighs, lightly raking her fingernails over the flesh and pinching his skin. By some miracle Sherlock was able to stay completely still throughout, the beads of sweat on his brow and his growing erection the only outward signs of his exertion. 

“Such a good boy,” Molly said as she continued her ministrations, gently pushing his legs apart. Sherlock suppressed a moan and obediently spread them, giving her a full view of his heavy cock and bollocks. She murmured her appreciation but made no move to touch his sensitive flesh, at least not yet. Sherlock blinked in quick succession, trying to banish all visuals of what would happen if and when she did touch him; one of her small hands wrapped around the base of his cock, keeping him steady as she mouthed the tip, painting her lips with his precome…

His cock throbbed at that image and he let out a helpless, embarrassingly wanton moan. He halfway expected Molly to laugh but she did nothing of the sort. Instead she bent over his side to rummage in the nightstand for something. Sherlock was far too distracted to deduce what exactly she was planning to do, though he did have a general idea once he saw her pull a small tube of lubricant out of the drawer and squeeze a generous dollop onto her finger. 

“Molly,” he rasped, watching as she rubbed her fingers together, warming the gel up. A pleasant ache settled in his belly at the sight. Aside from an occasional brush of her finger now and again, Molly had never played with his arsehole. Not that Sherlock was averse to the idea; he’d been fingered, licked and pegged by his previous Dommes and had loved every single second of it. It was just unexpected of Molly to want to do the same. Unexpected, yes, but not unwelcome. Far from it. 

“What did I say about addressing me while we’re playing?” Molly asked, her voice stern but a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

Sherlock gulped, forgetting his words for a moment as she settled in between his parted legs. “That I…” He tensed on instinct when he felt her knead his inner thighs but forced himself to relax. She knew how to please him, to take care of him. She would never hurt him unless he truly wanted her to. With this in mind he counted to five and started again, “You said that I should call you mistress and nothing else…mistress.” 

“Quite right.” She glanced up at him then, her eyes soft and knowing. “Remember your safeword, pet?" 

He nodded, his head falling back as he felt one finger circle the puckered skin of his hole. “Y-yes, mistress.” 

Two fingers now, the touch still incredibly light and teasing. “What is it? Tell me, love.” 

"Chemistry." 

"Good boy.” She ceased her teasing and pressed two fingers against his hole, the pressure gentle yet firm. Sherlock sucked in a breath as he felt his body open up for her. Ah, he’d missed this. The slight burn, his muscles clenching from the intrusion and the utter depravity of the act itself. 

Always perceptive, Molly quickly realized the effect it had on him. She pushed her two digits deeper, slowly opening him up by scissoring both fingers together. 

Sherlock strained against his bonds, overwhelmed and thoroughly aroused as her slick fingers began to glide in and out of him. She continued to be exceedingly careful, though, and as the tense seconds ticked by he found it increasingly difficult to keep from snapping at her to go faster, harder. To fuck him the way he craved until he felt stretched and uncomfortably full, all four of her fingers deep inside him.

“Please, Mistress…” he moaned, thrashing his head back and forth.

”Please what?” She asked this with a smile as she pulled back out, her pointer finger nudging against his prostate in the process. Sherlock yelped, his hips bucking up on their own accord. Molly gave him no reprimand for his being so vocal; it was glaringly obvious that she got off on all of this, too. Color was high in her cheeks and every so often she would pinch her nipples with her unoccupied hand, teasing the pert little buds through the sheer fabric of her bra.

“Please…fuck me harder,” he gasped.

“Such a filthy, eager little slut,” she cooed, crooking her fingers in such a way so that Sherlock saw stars in his vision. 

As she slowly but surely rendered him a speechless and sweaty mess, his entire body taut as a bowstring by the end when she finally milked the come out of him, he couldn’t help but agree with her about that. He was filthy, he was eager and he was most assuredly a slut. Her slut. No one else’s…just as it should be. 


	13. Hot For Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Didn't follow the prompt exactly, but it's based off this one: Sherlock likes to send Molly text messages, detailing every aspect of what he wants to be doing to her. He prefers doing this when Molly is lecturing, because he gets to see her reaction to receiving such lewd texts in the middle of a seminar full of students. His best so far? Sending her a photo of his cock in hand, already hard and waiting for her in her office. Molly let the students leave early that day.

“Remember, this exam is comprehensive and covers most of unit three although it shouldn’t take you more than an hour to complete. Now, unless there are any more questions?” Molly glanced around the lecture hall but as usual, her students were already hard at work, their heads bowed in concentration as they flipped through their test booklets. Some professors would frown upon students not waiting for further instruction but Molly could only marvel at the continued enthusiasm of her pupils. Their willingness to learn was a blessing, considering how small the pathology department was, not to mention their passion for the science rivaled Sherlock’s which was really saying something. It was no secret that he was fascinated by the study of disease; just last night he’d stolen a copy of the exam and completed it. For fun!

Molly smiled to herself. He was always full of surprises. Most of them were adorable, some of them were horrid (she’d woken up one day to find her toothbrush coated in green goo) while others were…exciting, to say the least. 

Her mobile buzzed, pulling her from her distracting thoughts, and Molly rushed to the desk to switch her alert settings to silent so as not to disturb the students.

She intended to turn the phone off completely, really she did, but as Sherlock’s name flashed across the notification screen she couldn’t help but sneak a peek at what he’d sent. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone in the room would notice. 

Expecting a one-worded message for her to buy more milk or perhaps an explanation as to why he’d be working late, Molly was entirely unprepared for the text’s content. 

**Just woke up from a rather vivid dream in which I fucked you in the backseat of a cab. SH**

Molly stared at the screen for a few seconds, too dumbfounded to reply. She snapped out of it when a student coughed from the back of the lecture hall. After first making sure that all eyes in the room were focused on the exam, she composed a short reply. 

**Working. Tell me later. Mx**

She received an answering text in less than ten seconds. 

**You’re not lecturing as it is exam day. You’ve nothing better to do than humour me. SH**

Molly rolled her eyes and typed back another message, this time hitting the keys with more force than strictly necessary. 

**GRADING PAPERS. Mx**

**Dull. SH**

She decided not to reply to that one. When half a minute went by with no word on Sherlock’s end, she began to close out her phone’s apps only to be disrupted by three consecutive texts flashing across the screen. “Jesus,” she muttered, clicking ‘read all’ with bated breath.

**I take that back. Grading papers wouldn’t be nearly as dull if I were with you in your office. SH**

Molly’s fond smile at that gave way to a blush when she read the second text.

**Your pencil skirt hiked up around your hips as I take you from behind. SH**

**Papers flying everywhere. SH**

Cheeks furiously burning from the visual he supplied, Molly chewed the inside of her cheek as she debated whether to give him any encouragement. While he did have a point (she was hardly busy and could grade papers later), her thoughts raced from the implications of sexting Sherlock in the middle of class. What if she were caught? What if another professor happened to walk in and find her typing away in the middle of administering an exam, her legs suspiciously crossed and her face a horrendous shade of pink? 

Another incoming text. Molly opened it, more than a little nervous as to what it could contain. Luckily it was just Sherlock being his usual know-it-all self.

**Stop thinking. You won’t be found out so long as you keep a straight face. SH**

**HOW DO YOU KNOW?? Mx**

**I just do. Trust me. SH**

Molly sucked in a breath of air, glanced around the lecture hall once more and then hit reply. 

**Fine. Mx**

**Excellent. Now, to start, what are you wearing? SH**

**Can’t you just figure it out? Mx**

**I could rifle through your wardrobe and eventually surmise your entire outfit, yes, but that would spoil the mood. I’d rather you tell me. SH**

**Blue cardigan, cream coloured blouse and work slacks. Mx**

**Shoes? SH**

**Nude pumps. Mx**

**And underneath? SH**

**Sherlock… Mx**

**Remember. Humour me. SH**

**Blue knickers. Matching bra. Nothing special. Mx**

When Sherlock didn’t respond, Molly couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. He was too easily distracted but it was just part of who he was. She couldn’t change that. One minute he’d be closing in on her, his eyes dark and his lips slightly parted with the intent to ravish her and the next he’d be rushing out the door for a new case, promising to continue where he’d left off at some point. 

Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn’t. She didn’t mind. Much. 

Sighing, Molly placed her phone at the corner of her desk and focused on marking papers for the remainder of the period. She glanced its way every so often, a large part of her hoping that he’d give some sort of response.

None came until the last few minutes of class. Heart racing, Molly reached for her phone and opened the message, paying no mind to the students capping their pens and closing their exam booklets.

Out of all the replies she’d envisioned, a picture of Sherlock’s cock had not been one of them. Mouth gaping, Molly closed out of the message right away but not before catching a glimpse of his hand wrapped around the thick base. 

“Doctor Hooper? Are you alright?”

Molly gasped, dropping her phone into her lap. She turned in her seat and saw one of her students (Annabelle, her mind supplied) staring at her with concern. 

“Fine. How was the exam?” Molly forced a cheery smile and shuffled some papers in front of her. 

Annabelle handed her the booklet with a small, knowing smile. “It was alright. We’ll see. Have a good weekend.” 

“You too, Annabelle.” Molly watched her leave, almost certain that the girl had at least guessed the contents of the message. She tried to keep a level head as the remainder of the students approached her with their testing materials but it was all she could do to not blush scarlet. She’d have to talk to Sherlock about basic decency over dinner, because honestly…

Her screen lit up with a new notification a few minutes later. Since the last student had left and Molly was finally by herself, she opened it right away. 

**In your office, professor. Do hurry. As you could see from my last message, I have a problem. SH**

Another text arrived seconds later, 

**It’s hard. May need your assistance. SH**

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Molly grumbled, though she quickly gathered her supplies with a huge smile on her face and made her way to her office on the second floor. In her defense, it was exceedingly difficult to stay mad at a brilliant (albeit reckless) man who’d traveled all the way across town just so he could shag her senseless on top of an old desk. 

She sent one more text as she reached the top of the stairs and came into view of her small office, the door slightly ajar. 

**On my way. I’m confident we can fix this problem of yours. You’ll be in capable hands. Mx**

Her mobile buzzed as she stopped just outside the room. 

Peeking in, she found Sherlock sprawled in her chair, his arms folded behind his head and his legs propped up on the desk. He welcomed her with a smirk and then glanced pointedly at her phone. 

Molly opened the message, her lips spreading in an answering grin as she read it. 

**Of that I have no doubt, Doctor Hooper. SH**


	14. It's A Text Alert, It Means I've Got A Text

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I reworked a prompt where Molly replaces Irene's text alert with hers because that's no fun. Have some Molrenelock instead.

“Think you can outdo my work, precious?” 

Molly bit her lip and nodded, straining to see past the blindfold. “I’ll certainly try, Mistress.” 

She heard a soft laugh from somewhere near the end of the bed, then the vibrator between her legs started up again. She jumped a bit as she felt manicured nails caressing the skin of her inner thighs. 

“Feel nice?” 

“Oh yes. Yes, Mistress.” 

“Good girl. Get ready.” 

The speed of the vibrations changed and Molly cried out, grinding her hips down to feel more of her lover’s touch between her legs. Seconds later, she strained to hear as the recording of her cries played back over the steady hum of the vibrator. Molly felt a blush creeping over her skin. Did she really sound like that? 

Her mistress gave a dramatic sigh. “Hm. Not quite good enough, I’m afraid. We’ll have to rerecord. But I know just the thing to get you talking…” 

Molly knew what was coming, but she still let out a string of curses as two fingers crooked inside her, pumping in and out as the vibrator worked her clit relentlessly. She came only seconds later. The playback of the embarrassingly loud shouts filled the silence. 

“Oh, yes. That one should do it, love. He’ll like that,” her mistress practically purred. 

Molly grinned, ridiculously pleased with herself. The seconds ticked by as she waited patiently for the blindfold to be lifted. When it was, she wrapped her arms around her lover’s neck and pressed her lips against hers. 

“Thank you, Irene.” 

—

Sherlock was in the middle of a meeting with a very important client when it happened. 

“Oh GOD! Yes! Fuck! FUCK me!”

It was undoubtedly Molly’s voice…coming from his phone. He fumbled to get the blasted device out of his jacket pocket and turn it off. Had he called her by mistake? Were her and Irene up to…things? 

The speaker wasn’t on and there was no call to be ended. Just a text: 

**Now my text alert matches Hers. Hope the meeting’s going well! :) xoxo M**


End file.
